[center][h1]Lord Sebastian Brotherton[/h1]

Physical State: Sea-chilled
Mental State: Wistful

The [i]Majestic[/i] lived up to her name, a merciless tower of steel and luxuries that pushed across the cruel Atlantic. The new paint was still fresh on her, marking her transition from the German fleet to the British as part of the war reparations. Goodbye [i]Reichstag[/i]; long-live [i]Majestic[/i]. Sebastian ran a finger along the wood panelling in his cabin, wondering if a Prussian baroness had stared at the same walnut inlays or if those were just as new. He shrugged off his outer coat, unbuttoned his jacket. They had been useless to him on the deck, the sea winds cutting through the heavy wool like they were nothing. At least the cabin had a little gas fireplace and good sealing on the windows. The gas hissed lightly before the match caught it and the flame burped to life, slowly nourishing the air with orange light and warmth. He stretched like a cat in front of the blessed contraption, letting the cold out of his bones before he felt ready to do anything else. 

When he at last felt up to it, Sebastian moved over to his writing desk which sat up against the adjoining wall with the next cabin. When he sat he could just make out the sounds of the record player - [i]Rose of Samarkand[/i]. He reached into his case and pulled out a small bundle of envelopes tied together with rough, brown string. Goodbye notes, farewell messages. He had left most of them unread as a diversion for the journey; the [i]Majestic[/i] had a telegram station he could use to reply if he particularly wished or if there was any urgency, but he currently had no intention to. Besides, there was one letter in particular he was looking forward to reading, and taking a good amount of time to read at that. Perhaps re-read a few times when the music next door was loud enough to drown out his remembering. He ran his nose along the bundle, looking for lily of the valley. There. A looping, cursive hand, little flecks of silver in black ink. Fine, thick paper stock. 

[hider=Bastienne]
[color=DCDCDC][i]"My Bastienne - ah, but you are no longer mine.

It aches me still to think of you so far gone. You were always such a breath of air when you visited me and my studio, you and your beautiful agonies. I still have some of the robes you wore when you modelled. I sold the piece to a visiting American and told him you were a local actress - and he honestly believed it! Who knows, perhaps you shall find him when you arrive and show him the real thing! Can you imagine his reaction? Perhaps he will even enjoy it; he was so pleased with the paleness of your skin that he might appreciate a sudden flash of it. 

You would not recognise Paris and I think it would not recognise you. Breton and his lot, those apostles of Apollinaire, have colonised our favourite cafe and began spouting about Dada, which is gibberish and drumming imported from Zurich. They waffle of dreams, and the meaning of meaninglessness - or perhaps I'm reversing the two. Did you meet them when you were here last? Breton was the one with the over-large head, the prominent lower lip and the jaw yanked too far to the right. His friend, Vache, killed himself with opium in '19 and Breton has been most impolite and not followed the example. Breton doesn't appreciate the intensity of technique, the soul that goes into portraiture; when last we spoke (which is rarely, for the man seems to primarily communicate in manifesto form these days) he told me that the painter's craft has been murdered by photography and that reality is no longer the realm of the arts. What is the English word for someone like him? Ah, yes, arsehole. He is an arsehole. Paris is full of arseholes. 

I cannot know what it is to have such a weight of family upon you, Bastienne. I am a mere petty sinner, a baker's son with ideas above his station about colour and light and essences. I know I cannot offer much to compel you to stay, I could never convince you to do anything you didn't want to do. I think perhaps that was always your most charming side, the part of you that most came out when you wore the robes. I do not dare disturb the universe such as it would take to change that. And so all I can do is wish you the best among the cattle-rustlers and the movie stars, or whoever it is you find yourself among. Perhaps if they ever ask of Paris, of the arts, you tell them of my little studio on rue de l'Odeon and send their patronage my way?

Ever your cagneux, 

H.[/i][/color][/hider]

Sebastian smiled softly as he read Henri's letter, holding the paper up to catch the perfume's softer nuances again before he folded the creamy paper back into the envelope with the other memories of the summer. He would be at sea another day yet, lashed by cold winter rains, and would need that warmth of remembrance to last him all the way to Arkham. He thought of the piece Henri referred to, when he modelled as Bastienne. It was one of his paramour's more technically accomplished pieces, the light that fell across his pale neck and the sharp, almost aggressive contrast conjured between his near-white skin and the violent scarlet of the long, silk kimono. He had painted his lips, styled his hair like a short, tomboyish girl, twisted and pouted. It took form in oil and canvas over three long evenings in Henri's attic; they had been lit orange by a Chinese paper lantern, drinking strong reds, laughing to themselves when the grey Polish landlady shouted at black the street cats.

Over the time he'd been reading, remembering, the small fire had now quite filled the room and he trotted back over to kill the gas and stifle the flame. When he came back to the desk, this time he pulled out the [i]Brotherton Genealogy[/i] which had set him off on the journey to begin with. He had an old, cold lead plucked from the between the pages of this crumbling quarto; one Nathaniel Brotherton, youngest son of Sebastian's great-great grandfather Willard, had departed for the colonies in 1751 aboard Captain Heywood Duffy's [i]St. Margaret[/i]. Nathaniel had brought his wife and two children - unnamed in the fragmentary,  rushed prose - with him.  The [i]St. Margaret[/i]'s route put her arriving in Massachusetts, at the harbour in Kingsport. 

The only problem was he could find no other reference to Nathaniel in the family record; all the texts at his disposal originated after that point and merely referred back to historical events, leaving him to believe that for some reason Nathaniel had been simply written out of the family history and never acknowledged as existing again. Given the timing, he supposed it had something to do with the Mr. Washington's Unpleasantness, though this was never explicitly referred to. But it was Willard, Nathaniel's father, who had built much of the family fortune in quarries, mines and the like and Nathaniel vanished not long after the disaster that flooded their chalk quarry at Capenwray. Perhaps Nathaniel had earned his father's ire mis-managing the blasting of - 

A knock at the door broke his line of thought. Sebastian hobbled over to the cabin door and slid it aside to see the strong, full figure of one of the cabin boys - well, this was more of a cabin [i]man[/i] really - holding out a telegram for him. Good skin, eyes like walnuts. Sebastian offered the man a drink in exchange for the service, which was politely declined for professional reasons but met with a soft "well, perhaps once you come off your shift". The man flushed red, blustered an excuse and left quickly. Sebastian smiled devilishly as he slid the door back closed and flicked open the message card.

[hider=Cousin]DO NOT COME STOP 

LET IT DIE STOP 

BETTER THAT WAY STOP

SAY AGAIN DO NOT COME STOP
[/hider]

Sebastian set the typed card down on the dressing table and poured himself a brandy. He sipped it and managed to keep the shiver from his hands long enough to finish the tumbler. The room was suddenly cold again, as if in the time between opening the door and closing it an Arctic chill had rushed in. From the window, between the slats of the blind, a smeared coastline of sodium-yellow lights blinked on and off in the distance; they were in sight of fearsome, witch-haunted Arkham at last. 
[/center]